


embers in the night

by bubblesodatea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), faerghun funeral customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28226451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblesodatea/pseuds/bubblesodatea
Summary: A life taken too soon. A cold, snowy night. A funeral pyre.Ingrid is tired of watching her loved ones burn.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Annette Fantine Dominic/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18
Collections: Those Who Drabble in the Dark





	embers in the night

The ground in Faerghus is iced over more often than it is not, soil and dirt frozen together under oppressive sheets of snow. It would take hours to make even a dent in the cold, slushy mud, and the wet dirt would only bring what was buried back up to the surface come the springtime thaw. Ingrid’s forefathers, who rode into battle to defend their king and sent their sons in their stead when they could fight no longer, adapted quickly to the frigidity of the country where they lived. 

Here, in the low valley somewhere between Gautier and Itha, there is no rich soil to lay a coffin into, no lush green grass to grow over the mound. The only flowers any of them can offer are tiny, red buds, shooting out of the snow in wiry branches. A poor bouquet for a woman who loved nature, whom nature loved.

But if there’s one natural resource Faerghus does not lack for, it is trees. Evergreen, branches heavy with snow but thriving despite the cold. The leaves, to be brewed into medicinal teas. The branches, from where arrows are crafted and love spoons are carved. The trunk, where the wood for funeral pyres is gathered.

Ingrid has only ever done this once before. She was too young when her grandmother died, and there hadn’t been enough of Glenn’s body left to burn, so when Ingrid picks up the axe, she is reminded of her mother.

It’s hard work. The handle of the axe digs into her hands, which are more used to lances, and the cold air stings her lungs, but Ingrid relishes in it. It reminds her she is lucky to be alive. It reminds her of those who are not.

She hears steps in the snow behind her. Ingrid turns around, expecting to see Sylvain, or maybe Felix, but she blinks past her tears and sees that it is Mercedes.

Sweet Mercedes, who’s never been one for physical labor or training, who Ingrid has never seen with a weapon in her hand even during this war, clutches Annette’s steel axe in her hand like a life line. 

“Mercedes—”

“Please,” Mercedes says, and her voice is so soft that it’s almost carried away by the wind. “I have to—I have to help.”

Ingrid says nothing else, just moves aside and lets Mercedes work beside her. Neither of them speak; the only sounds are the rhythmic thuds of steel against wood, and in the distance, the whispers of conversation from a camp Ingrid can’t see. For all she knows, it isn’t real. What’s real is the puff of steam when she exhales. 

In the end, Felix is the one who constructs the pyre. He does not refuse Dimitri’s help when he offers it, nor does he turn away Sylvain. Ingrid only stands back and watches, Mercedes slumped against her left side. It reminds her of being back at the Academy, exchanging stories with the other girls of the Blue Lion house.

Ingrid’s right side suddenly feels colder than ever, and she shivers.

The pyre is simple, even for these warbare times, even for these frozen temperatures, but it is neatly arranged with care. Sylvain and Dimitri step away from it when they’ve finished, and Ashe stumbles over to Mercedes’ other side, but Felix remains by the pyre. 

Trusting that Ashe and Mercedes will keep each other standing, Ingrid inhales and walks up to Felix. As she approaches him, she can see that he’s taken off his gloves. His pale hands are covered in shallow cuts, and they’re shaking—whether from emotion or from the cold, Ingrid isn’t sure. 

His eyes are bloodshot, but he isn’t crying. He’d spent all his tears the night before (and the night before that, and the night before that, and the night before that…)

Ingrid takes Felix’s hand. Clutched in her own, it feels like ice.

For all the Faerghus custom, it is a man of Duscur who carries out the body. Dedue gently places it onto the pyre, and with the care of someone tucking in their child, carefully places a blanket of saffron-colored cloth over the figure. The only luxury they can offer their fallen friend, and it isn’t even Faerghan.

But she would have loved the color, Ingrid thinks. She would have liked how it matches her hair.

Dimitri clears his throat. Ingrid’s king, his royal Majesty, a man who has already lost his father and his mother and his uncle, must eulogize another member of his family. They’re all too young for this, Ingrid thinks. She’s tired.

“Annette Fantine Dominic, born on 9th of the Harpstring Moon in our Imperial Year 1163. Scion of House Dominic, daughter of Sir Gustave Eddie Dominic and Lady Amandine Rose Dominic. You were a gifted sorceress, a devoted student, and a true-hearted friend. You were...You were a light that deserved to shine for many more years,” Dimitri says, his voice cracking with emotion. “You have served your kingdom well. May you rest in the skies of the All-Mother. May you know peace.” 

“May you know peace,” Ingrid says. Around her, her fellow soldiers echo the words. 

Sylvain, with a solemnity that does not suit him in the way that his easy smiles do. Ashe, tears freezing to his freckled cheeks, bright-green resolve shining in his eyes. Mercedes, her entire body shaking, her lips moving in silent, desperate prayer. Dedue, uttering blessings from a goddess he does not worship.

It is Felix who speaks last. It is the first time Ingrid has heard his voice in days, and it rasps out of him in a dry, scratchy murmur.

“May you know peace.”

Snow had started falling halfway through Dimitri’s eulogy, and Ingrid has stood through enough funerals to know that the wood is surely damp now. But magical fire has never needed dryness to ignite. Only kindling. 

Mercedes reaches out a hand to her friend one last time, and a fire springs to life at her fingertips. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oops, sorry for killing you, Annette. Don't worry, Byleth is about to spring in and Divine Pulse the shit out of your game. You'll be fine in no time!
> 
> This was written for the Felannie Drabble prompt this week, "Tradition." I saw the potential to go angsty and I RAN WITH IT. I based the cremation tradition off of Roman funerals, and the saffron cloth Dedue has was inspired by Hindu rites, because I imagined customs differ in Duscur and Faerghus. 
> 
> Comments 'n' Kudos are appreciated!


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